


Don't Fear the Reaper

by Lyrial



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Original, Angst and Humor, Child Death, Firefighter Dean Winchester, M/M, Non-canon compliant supernatural elements, Original Character Death(s), Rating May Change, Reaper Castiel, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-09
Updated: 2015-01-13
Packaged: 2018-03-06 17:27:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3142667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyrial/pseuds/Lyrial
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As an Angel of Death, it is Castiel’s job to reap the souls of the dead and send them on to the afterlife. It’s a thankless job, yes, and it’s not like anyone is ever actually truly <i>happy</i> to see him, but Castiel has done his duty without complaint for centuries. The thought of disobedience has never once crossed his mind. </p>
<p>However, this all changes when he meets one Dean Winchester.</p>
<p>[An AU where Castiel is a reaper, Dean is a firefighter, and there are no demons or apocalypses, but Castiel is still willing to defy fate and Heaven itself to save the man he loves.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all, just to be clear before we begin- this fic does take place in a universe with some of the supernatural elements present in canon (i.e. reapers, angels, the afterlife), but I have made quite a few alterations. Basically, same name, different things. So don't be surprised if you find that there are certain things that don't quite mesh up with canon.
> 
> Also, I'll be upfront with you guys. I'm basically a giant sucker for happy endings, so I can give you a 110% assurance that this will all end in sunshine, unicorns, and Cas and Dean holding hands as they frolic their way through magical fields of rainbow-coloured roses. Or well, a close enough equivalent.
> 
> (P.S. before I finally shut up: If you've read some Pratchett before, you may notice a few similarities in the way reapers work in this story to a certain stylishly robe-clad skeleton who SPEAKS ALL IN CAPS. The Discworld Death books have been a huge inspiration, especially Mort, from which was born my burning obsession with stories about nerdy, awkward psychopomps falling hopelessly and disastrously in love.)

Castiel had been stewing in this sorry excuse for a bar for the past three hours. He was, correspondingly, thoroughly miserable.

Sighing, he pulled out a small bronze hourglass from his coat and eyed it critically. The sand in its upper bulb was almost gone.

 _Thank goodness_. Castiel had already had more than enough of this den of iniquity. The throbbing bass beat, stench of unwashed bodies and sheer teeming mass of humanity would have given him a headache… had he not been a reaper and thus physically incapable of getting one.

Across the room from him was the man whose name was written on the hourglass. Andrew Morton. He was currently on his fifteenth tequila shot. Keeping a careful eye on his target, Castiel slowly put away the hourglass and rested both his elbows against the bar top.

Though Castiel hadn't ordered a single drink, the bartender left him well alone. It was one of the perks of his job. If Castiel didn’t want to be noticed, he stayed unnoticed. It was all part of the ‘Reaper Mojo’ as his colleague (and self-christened best friend) Balthazar liked to call it. People saw Castiel, but they didn’t really _see_ Castiel. Their attention just slid off him, as if they had never noticed him in the first place.

The human brain just wasn’t designed to deal with the supernatural, and rather than tax itself, it would just willfully and cheerfully deny the existence of anything out of the ordinary. So even if Castiel were to put on a shiny brassiere and start tap-dancing his way across the bar table, nobody would bat an eyelid. Not that Castiel was in any way inclined to do anything like that. That was more of the aforementioned best friend’s style.

Over the loud thumping beat of the music and the noise of the crowd came an overjoyed shout, “Cassie! My main man! Dearest beloved of my heart! How’s my favorite reaper doing today?”

Speak of the devil. When Castiel was incorporeal, the only entities that could still see him were animals, very young children, and also, unfortunately, his fellow reapers. That disgustingly chipper greeting and unmistakably British accent could mean only one thing.

Castiel groaned.

“Balthazar,” he said dryly as he swiveled his bar stool around to face the other man. “To what do I owe the _pleasure_ of your company?”

Balthazar just grinned at him cheekily. As always, Castiel’s surly frown and less than cordial tone just rolled right off him like water off a duck’s back. He slung an arm around Castiel’s shoulders and reached out to ruffle his hair. Heaving an inward sigh at the horrible mess that his hair was becoming, Castiel let him. Long experience had taught him that in most cases it was simply easier to allow Balthazar to have his way.

“Aww, Cas, don’t be like that. Can’t a man pop in to see his best mate once in a while?”

Castiel huffed. “Not when I’m _working_ , Balthazar. You know full well that I’m currently on a job.” He paused and gave Balthazar an accusing glare. “And shouldn’t _you_ be working as well? I know Anna assigned you ten new cases yesterday—you certainly don’t have the time to be goofing around here.”

Balthazar pouted at him. “Aren’t you a regular party pooper? You really put the ‘grim’ in ‘grim reaper’, my delightful little ray of sunshine.”

Castiel shot Balthazar a withering glare. “You should take your job more seriously, Balthazar. The work that we do—”

“Is very important,” Balthazar intoned in a gravelly and exaggeratedly solemn voice that was an obvious imitation of Castiel’s. His face was scrunched up in a pained grimace that made him look as though he was struggling with a particularly bad case of constipation. “The forces of life and death are not to be trifled with, Balthazar. Our work is the only thing that keeps the balance on which the fate of the universe hangs— blah blah blah, great power, great responsibility, all that jazz. Yeah, Cas, I’ve practically got your speech memorized already. You can skip the lecture today.”

“Stop doing that,” Castiel snapped, annoyed. “I don’t sound anything like that.”

“Uh, yeah, you do?” Balthazar pointed a finger at his face. “Did you see the face? I was doing your face too.”

“Balthazar,” Castiel growled warningly.

“Relax a little, Cassie, it won’t kill you. Stop being so gloomy and dour all the time. You gotta take things less seriously. Live a little.”

“Ha,” said Castiel. “Do I need to point out the irony in what you just said?”

Balthazar gave him a firm look, and his face was serious for once, not a trace of levity in his demeanor. His gaze was strangely intent as he stared straight into Castiel’s eyes. “Y’know, Cas… Just because you’re an emissary of Death doesn’t mean you can’t have a life of your own. Our job may be to usher the dead to their final destination, but that doesn’t mean we should forget how to live ourselves.”

Castiel stared at him, floored by the unexpected seriousness from his incorrigible jokester of a friend. Then Balthazar, of course, had to go and ruin the moment by flashing him a cheeky grin.

“Here.” He clicked his fingers and a glass of beer spun out from beneath the hands of a man a few seats down and slid down the counter-top to come to rest in front of Castiel. The man whose beer Balthazar had just stolen blinked blearily at the empty space where his glass had once been before shaking his head, his missing beer entirely forgotten as his brain blithely dismissed the impossibility of what had just happened.

Balthazar smirked. “This one’s on me.”

With the next snap of his fingers, he disappeared before Castiel could even open his mouth to scold him for messing around. Not that Balthazar would ever feel guilty for abusing his powers to steal stuff from unknowing humans. He would probably just call it a perk of their job.

The target of his ire gone, Castiel was left to stare down at the new glass of beer in front of him. Balthazar’s little visit was really making him reconsider his stance against drinking on the job. But Castiel would have to become corporeal enough to interact with his surroundings in order to drink that beer, and he wasn’t too keen on that. He much preferred staying incorporeal, so he could do his job in peace without any humans trying to bother him. In any case, the timer was ticking down, and Castiel noted with a grim sort of anticipation that the sand in Andrew Morton’s hourglass was down to the last few grains.

He stood, tucking the small bronze hourglass away into the pocket of his trench coat. It was time for him to do his job.

Across the bar, Andrew Morton stood up too. Wobbling with every step he took, he made his way slowly to the exit. Castiel followed close behind, a silent, unseen shadow, the crowds automatically parting before him despite being unable to see him, steering clear of him out of some primal, subconscious instinct for survival.

Andrew Morton staggered out into the night, cursing in the slurred, disjointed way of the heavily intoxicated. It was raining heavily, and though Morton tried to cover himself with his jacket, his clothing was sodden through in seconds. Still cursing furiously, he tried to stumble his way to shelter. Unfortunately for him, heavy alcohol consumption and slippery roads did not mix well. Andrew’s lack of coordination ended up being his undoing. A puddle of water, a foot in the wrong place. Andrew skidded and went down in a wild flailing of arms. A loud crack, then nothing.

Castiel strode forward to where Andrew Morton had slipped and fallen, hitting his head on a slightly protruding slab of the pavement. He lay unmoving, blood spreading like some kind of grotesque halo around his head. Crouching down, Castiel touched two fingers to the man’s forehead.

Andrew Morton sat up. Or more accurately... Andrew Morton’s eternal soul sat up.

He stared blankly at Castiel. Then, his gaze dropped downwards and the usual expression of shock and disbelieving horror flooded his features.

“No,” he said quietly as he stared down at his dead body. “I can’t be—I can’t be… _dead_.”

Castiel had learned over the years that it was better to just let the souls process their shock themselves. The initial denial usually passed quickly anyway; it wasn’t like you could continue deluding yourself into thinking you were still alive when your dead body was lying less than a foot away.

Andrew Morton looked wretchedly at his corpse. “All I did was have a few drinks,” he muttered, “Slipped on a fucking puddle. What kind of a stupid way is that to die? I’m only thirty eight! How is any of this _fair_?”

Castiel remained silent. He had been asked that question more times than he could care to count, from serial killers after their turn at the electric chair to soldiers dying on the battlefield, bleeding out slowly after taking a bullet to the gut. When their turn came, nobody ever truly thought that they deserved to die. But good, bad, guilty, innocent- everyone died the same. There was no fairness. There was only the inevitability of the final end.

Morton turned to look pleadingly at Castiel. “You’re Death, aren’t you? The Grim Reaper? Can you- can you put me back?”

Castiel shook his head. “It’s over, Andrew. Time to go.”

Andrew looked like he wanted to protest, so Castiel reached out quickly to touch him again. The ones who resisted were nothing but trouble, and Andrew had the look of a potential runner. Castiel had learned the hard way to do it quick and clean with these types, before the souls got it in their head that it would be a good idea to play the world's deadliest game of hide and seek with him.

At his touch, golden light sprung up around Andrew’s soul. “Wait—” Andrew gasped, but then the gold light enveloped him and he was gone, his form dissipating into motes of pure gold that slowly drifted into the dark of the night sky. Away to his final resting place, wherever that may be. The fate of Andrew’s eternal soul was none of Castiel’s concern. His job was merely to send it on its way.

With that done, Castiel drew out the second hourglass from the pocket in his coat. He looked at it and sighed.

It was small, much smaller than Andrew’s, and almost running down to the very last trickle of sand. On it in a child’s messy scrawl was written the name: Angela Thompson.

This was going to be a hard one.

 

\---

 

Castiel had had more than his fill of hospitals. As a reaper, he was practically stationed in them. What he especially loathed were the pediatric wards, but here he was in one, watching a six year old girl in an oxygen mask sleep, her chest rising and falling with every shaky, hard-won hitch of breath.

She was being kept in a private ICU room, alone except for her invisible reaper. The doctors and nurses had left for the night, but her parents were still waiting outside, valiantly attempting to keep vigil for the third night running and peering anxiously through the glass divider that separated them from their daughter, but as Castiel watched, they each succumbed to exhaustion and slipped into slumber.

“Are you an angel?”

Castiel froze, startled. Angela was staring straight at him. Smiling wanly, she pointed at something behind his shoulder. “I can see them. Your wings.”

Normally, the only humans who could see Castiel when he stayed off the material plane were very young children, those too young to remember him even after they saw him. But sometimes, very rarely, when people were close enough to death, their sight could pierce the veil. Unfortunately, this appeared to be one of those rare cases.

Castiel shuffled, twitching his wings closer around him almost self-consciously. “Hello, Angela,” he said simply. He forced himself to smile brightly at her, feeling terribly awkward as he did so.

Angela’s eyes lit up, and for a moment, the pallid sickly cast to her features seemed to disappear under the glow of her smile. “Are you here to make me better?”

Castiel bowed his head, unable to bear the hope in her eyes. “No,” he admitted quietly, “I’m not that type of angel.”

Angela's smile died. “Then what kind of angel are you?”

Castiel answered honestly, “I’m an angel of death. Humans sometimes refer to my kind as reapers.”

Angela stared at him, eyes wide. Castiel hoped that she wasn’t going to start screaming. That would be inconvenient.

However, Angela just nodded and said, voice calm and just slightly shaky, “Are you here for me?”

Castiel nodded and Angela’s face fell.

“Are you going to take me to Heaven?” The first tear slipped down her face. She was obviously struggling not to cry, to be brave, but she was failing miserably. “Mommy and Daddy said… said… I would be in a... better place. But I don’t wanna go to Heaven. I want to stay here. I don’t want Mommy and Daddy to be… to be sad.”

Castiel felt pity rise in him. It was an old, troublesome impulse that he still had yet to fully rid himself of, despite all his centuries on the job. It wasn’t for lack of trying. Castiel knew very well that there was no room for pity in his line of work. There could be no leniency or exceptions. No questioning or doubt. There was only his duty.

And no matter what Castiel personally felt, he had always done his duty.

He knelt down so that he was at Angela’s level. He looked her in the eye, face solemn, as he said, “I’m sorry, Angela. I can’t do that.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s the way the world works. I don’t know if you can understand this, but every life and every death is predestined, and changing anything would destroy the world. If I let you live, countless people will die. Perhaps, the whole universe itself would end. Because it would go against the natural order.

“So I have to do my job, no matter how much I don’t want to. Because if I don’t, very bad things will happen. The world will end. And innocent people will die. People like your parents. Can you understand that, Angela? Can you be brave?”

Angela nodded hesitantly. Castiel wasn’t entirely sure that she understood. But time was running out. He reached out two fingers towards her forehead.

However, when his fingers were less than an inch away from Angela’s forehead, Castiel’s hand abruptly stilled. Beneath the oxygen mask, Angela’s face was wan, cheeks sunken, but her pale blue eyes were bright and alive as she stared unwaveringly at him. A loose curl of her blonde hair had fallen across her face, and Castiel felt the sudden, overwhelming urge to brush it away.

A sudden flash of memory. _A blonde girl, her wide blue eyes alight with joy, a small smile on her face. Her hair, shining gold in the sunlight, fell across her face as she turned towards him. He moved his hand to tuck away that errant curl, fingers brushing against her cheek with a light, tender touch, as if she was something infinitely precious—_

For a moment, Castiel froze, the image in his mind overlapping with what he saw before him.

Then, reality broke in again. Castiel blinked, once, twice, and the image of the strange, nameless girl disappeared. His mind cleared. He had a job to do. There was no time for distractions… or eerily familiar phantoms.

Castiel steeled himself and touched two fingers to Angela’s forehead.

Angela took one last shaky breath and then slowly exhaled. Her chest did not move again. The ECG beside the bed gave one last, long shrill beep as it flat-lined. The room exploded into action as medical staff began to rush in, but they were too late. No amount of chest compressions or defibrillation- nothing, in fact, in modern medical science- would be able to bring back someone Castiel had already reaped.

Angela and Castiel watched in solemn silence as the doctor quietly declared the time of death. Outside the windows of the ICU, Angela’s parents had been roused from their sleep. Castiel could see the moment the last of their hope left their eyes. Distraught, Angela’s mother fell weakly against the glass window, sobbing hysterically as she placed a hand against the glass, almost as if she was trying to reach her daughter. Behind her, Angela’s father, face wet with tears, slowly placed his hand over hers.

Castiel noted all of this with a clinical sort of detachment. Beside him, Angela gazed at the forms of her grieving parents, eyes wide and sad. Castiel didn’t stop her as she walked up to the glass divider that separated them and put a small palm against it, resting right where her parents' hands lay. After a long moment, she finally pulled herself away.

“Are we going to Heaven now?” she asked, looking up at Castiel. There was trepidation in her wide blue eyes.

“This is a journey you’ll have to make alone,” Castiel told her truthfully.

Again, he reached out two fingers towards her forehead. All it took was a single touch and Angela Thompson was gone in a flash of golden light.

It was with an unusual feeling of melancholy that Castiel pulled out the third and final hourglass from his coat pocket. Idly, he traced the name that had been etched into the golden metal of the hourglass in a steady, firm hand.

“Dean Winchester,” he murmured quietly as his fingers lingered upon the indentations in the metal. Inside the hourglass, the grains of sand made a low whistling sound as they trickled down. Under the light, they shone like tiny green emeralds. The metal of the hourglass was warm against his skin.

Clutching the golden hourglass tightly, Castiel disappeared from the hospital room.


	2. Chapter 2

In his great number of years on the job, Castiel had found himself in a great number of strange situations and even stranger locations. Sometimes, he wondered if God had a sense of irony. This was one of those times.

On the morning of November 2nd, 2013, the day Dean Winchester would die, Castiel found him in the middle of a cemetery in Lawrence, Kansas, standing in front of a grave.

“Hey mom,” Dean said. “I brought you flowers.”

He knelt down, carefully placing the flowers on the grass before the beautifully maintained granite headstone before slowly straightening up again. He was smiling weakly.

“So, uh, you’re probably wondering why Sam isn’t with me. He wanted to come together, like usual. But I told him I wanted to do this by myself this time. I dunno… I guess I just wanted to talk to you alone this year…” He trailed off, staring down at the gravestone with a strange, pensive look on his face.

When he started speaking again, his tone was more cheerful, “Anyway, Sam’s coming by later with Jess. You remember Jess, don’t you? Sam’s girlfriend— I told you about her before. Sam can’t shut up about how wonderful she is. Well, she’s Sam’s fiancée now. I always told her she was completely out of Sam’s league. She never did listen.” Dean chuckled quietly. “They’re doing great.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially, “Don’t quote me on this, but I think we’re gonna be hearing wedding bells ringing come next spring.”

Dean laughed, grinning happily, but Castiel suspected that he wasn’t quite as genuinely happy about this joyous occasion as he was trying to portray.

“Y’know,” Dean said musingly, “Sam and Jess- they’re awesome. They’re always coming over to my place for dinner and stuff, and I love it, I really do. But sometimes, I can’t help but feel as though I’m some kind of… charity project for them. Like they’re worried I’m _lonely_ , or something. It’s ridiculous.”

He laughed again, but it was even more strained than his previous attempt, and Castiel, invisible as he was, couldn’t help but raise one skeptical eyebrow.

“They tried to set me up on a blind date once, with this guy called Aaron. We were having dinner when his crazy ex tried to beat me up. That dude was huge. He was like a friggin’ walking stone boulder. I nearly broke my knuckles hitting him. It was kind of a disaster.” Dean grinned sheepishly, looking embarrassed.

“Anyway, yeah, I’m doing great. Work’s been good. We’ve got a new kid in on the team, Kevin. That boy’s got real potential. He actually managed to get on Bobby’s good side on his first day… and sometimes I wonder if Bobby even _has_ a good side to speak of. I’m pretty sure the only reason he tolerates me is because he knew me back when I was still running around making mud pies in his garden with my pants off.”

Castiel was fairly sure that was meant to be a joke, from the way Dean was grinning.

"I love my job. I mean, yeah, it's pretty dangerous, and goddamn hard work, but y'know... I'm saving lives and I... I like to think that you'd proud of me." Dean smiled, and there was something soft and bittersweet about his smile that made Castiel's chest tighten painfully.

For a long while, Dean stood in silence, staring off into the distance, gaze wandering over the various headstones that dotted the grass of the graveyard. His gaze fell upon the stone angels, heads bowed in prayer, which decorated a mausoleum near the grove of willow trees where Castiel was standing, an invisible observer. Dean’s gaze stilled and suddenly, he was staring straight at Castiel.

Their eyes met, and for one impossible moment, Castiel thought Dean could see him.

He knew it was impossible. He was incorporeal. He should be invisible to humans. But Dean was staring right into his eyes, his gaze unwavering, and all Castiel could think about was those eyes, bright green and filled with haunting sadness, that made him feel as though Dean’s gaze was piercing right through to the heart of him. Unsettled by that direct gaze, Castiel fought the urge to bolt.

Then, Dean blinked and the tension broke. He shook his head, like someone trying to rouse themselves from a bout of drowsiness. He turned back to look at his mother’s headstone.

“Sorry, mom. I thought- I thought I saw something. Remember how you always used to say that angels are watching over me?” He let out a quiet chuckle. “It’s silly, but I thought maybe…” he trailed off, looking hesitant. “Anyway… I gotta get going to the station soon. My shift’s starting and Bobby will kill me if I’m late.” Chuckling, Dean smiled at the headstone, bright and brittle.

He swallowed, and his speech was halting and awkward as he said, “I’m no good with words, mom… but I just wanted to say- when I do what I do, I… I always think about you. I’ve always wanted to be a firefighter, even when I was just a kid. And now… when I’m out there saving people, I know it’s because of what you did for me. All those people who are alive now, it’s because of you. Because you saved me. I’ll never forget it. What you did for me.”

Dean dashed a hand against his face, wiping away the tears that had escaped his eyes.

His voice was hoarse as he said, “Thanks, mom. I love you.”

Closing his eyes, Dean bowed his head and kissed the tips of his fingers. He bent down and lightly pressed those fingers to the headstone, right where the name ‘Mary Winchester’ was carved.

And suddenly, Castiel remembered.

He remembered Mary Winchester and the night of November 2nd, 1983. He remembered where he had seen Dean and that unsettling, unexpectedly haunting green-eyed gaze before. It was on a face that had been thirty years younger.

On the second of November, 1983, Castiel had paid a visit to a house in a quiet suburb in Lawrence, Kansas. There had been nothing particularly special about that house. Neither was there anything particularly special about its occupants… except for one: Mary Winchester. And that was because she was scheduled to die on that day and it had been Castiel’s job to ensure that it got done.

The fire had started in the nursery in the middle of the night when everyone in that house had been asleep. To this date, nobody knew what had caused it, but Castiel knew. It was an electrical fault in the heating system. Just plain bad luck. But for a single frayed wire, Mary Winchester might not have died. But destiny was what it was, and Castiel had never questioned his orders before.

Castiel remembered how he had reaped Mary that night, how she had bravely sacrificed herself to save her sons. Even at the last moment, trapped in a burning room that was slowly collapsing around her, she had insisted that John Winchester get their children out first. Castiel remembered the look on her face- part fear, part resignation- before the explosion blew out the nursery windows and he stepped in to reap her. Because no matter how much he was impressed by Mary Winchester’s selfless courage, Castiel still had to do his duty.

Before he had touched her to send her on to the afterlife, Mary had spoken to him. He could still remember her exact words. “I know I don’t have any right to ask this of you,” she had said, “but could you- could you make sure that they’re alright? My family?”

Castiel had protested. As a reaper, he wasn’t allowed to interfere with the affairs of the living, but Mary had insisted, “Just- just check for me, please. You don’t need to do anything. Just- could you watch over them? I’d feel better, knowing that someone is out there, watching over them.”

For some reason, Castiel found himself nodding. Mary, a small, grateful smile on her face, had closed her eyes and allowed him to touch two fingers to her forehead. After that, for the first time in his long existence, Castiel had stayed on even after the completion of his job.

Walking out of the burning house and onto the front lawn, past the chaos of the firefighters and the paramedics, he had found the boys and John Winchester, huddled against a sleek black car.

Almost as though he sensed Castiel’s gaze, Dean’s head had lifted up. His cheeks were stained with tears, but he had stopped crying, like he was too numb to do so any longer. For a long moment, Dean had stared straight into Castiel’s eyes, almost like he was accusing Castiel. His green gaze was piercing and Castiel had felt as though he was being pinned to the spot. For the first time in a long while, Castiel had felt the cold tendrils of doubt creep through him.

Unnerved, he did the only thing he could do. He fled.

But even as Castiel had stood in the middle of a sunlit garden, in the small piece of Heaven that he called his own, he had still felt ill at ease. In his chest, he had felt the first faint stirrings of guilt.

That guilt returned now, increased tenfold, as he watched Dean slowly get up from where he had been kneeling in front of his mother’s grave.

Castiel knew that he shouldn’t feel responsible. It was no more his fault that Dean grew up motherless than it was gravity’s fault that people died from hitting the ground at terminal velocity. What Castiel did was part of the natural order- a sacred, inviolable law of the universe. But that still didn’t stop the feeling of guilt lying heavy in his chest.

It remained with him even as Castiel followed Dean out of the graveyard and into his car. Castiel sat in the backseat, a silent, invisible passenger, and watched as Dean gripped the steering wheel tightly, his eyes still wet. After taking a moment to compose himself, Dean put his foot to the pedal and pulled out of the cemetery.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've tried my best to do some research on firefighting, but just in case my googlefu and wikipedia trawling have failed me, please forgive any inaccuracies and do feel free to alert me to them! :)

The feeling of guilt remained with Castiel as he followed Dean around for the rest of the day, despite all his attempts to push it away.

He watched as Dean arrived at the fire station, exchanging warm greetings with his fellow firefighters. An especially enthusiastic red-headed woman gave a shout of joy upon sighting Dean, bounding up to pull him into a tight hug.

“Charlie!” Dean protested, “I told you to stop doing that!” He disentangled himself from her, mock-scowling as he crossed his arms.

Charlie just laughed. “You love it and you know it! Admit it, Dean, you may behave like a mean old grouch, but inside you’re a big softie, just like Bobby.”

“Lies and insubordination,” Dean muttered, “I should tell Bobby. He’ll fire you,” but the big grin on his face belied his words.

It was obvious that Dean was well-liked around the station. The alleged big softie, Captain Robert ‘Bobby’ Singer, was no exception. He had the gruff look of someone who had zero tolerance for nonsense. However, Bobby took one look at Dean before his face softened. He pulled Dean into a rough, one-armed hug and then gave him a few awkward pats on the shoulder.

“Glad to have you here today, boy,” he told Dean, “I know it’s not exactly an easy day for you,” and gave him one last pat, before barking, “Get going and gear up. Today’s gonna be busy. You’re not being paid to stand around and look pretty, Winchester.”

“Yes, sir!” Throwing Bobby a sloppy salute, Dean grinned and hastened to obey.

It turned out that Bobby was right. It didn’t take long for an emergency call to come in. Soon enough, Castiel found himself in front of a burning building, watching as Bobby barked orders and the firefighters under his command leapt into action with practiced efficiency.

Suddenly, with a bone-deep, unshakeable certainty, Castiel knew. This was it. This was where Dean Winchester was going to die.

With a strange heaviness in his heart, Castiel took out Dean Winchester’s hourglass. The sand in the upper bulb had dwindled down to almost nothing.

He already knew how this story was going to end. He had seen it play out billions of times before. The details may have been different, but the ending was always the same.

Amidst the chaos unfolding around him, Castiel stood like a statue, watching impassively as the events leading up to Dean Winchester’s death played out.

 

\---

_Thank fuck that’s over_ , Dean thought.

The last of the civilians had been evacuated, and not a moment too soon. The building looked about ready to collapse. He gave it about five minutes before it came down. Well, sometimes you just couldn’t win. But at least they had managed to get all the civilians out safely before Bobby deemed it too dangerous for them to continue and ordered everyone out.

“Good job in there, Kev,” he said, giving his partner a hearty pat on the back. For a rookie, Kevin really wasn’t too bad. Bobby had assigned Kevin to Dean, likely hoping that some of Dean’s awesomeness would rub off. So far, Dean liked to think that quite a lot of it had.

Kevin gave Dean a small smile of thanks. He could be pretty quiet, and Dean sometimes secretly wondered if he was perhaps a little too nerdy for this line of business. After all, he had been a straight As student. Hell, he had even been in AP. He was like a mini-Sam, except more Asian. Dean had always wondered why he hadn’t chosen to go to college instead.

But then Dean would remember Charlie, Queen of All Things Geeky _and_ All Around Awesome Firefighter, and he’d remember just how badass she was and just how much she would kick his butt if she knew he was even thinking that Kevin was too nerdy to be a firefighter.

Speaking of Charlie, the redhead was over by where the EMTs were tending to the survivors they had managed to evacuate from the building. Charlie had some paramedic training and she was helping out. She was fitting an oxygen mask over a middle-aged woman who was lying unconscious on a gurney when Dean came up behind her.

The woman Charlie was tending to suddenly jerked awake. She took one sharp breath before starting to cough violently. She struggled up, desperately trying to claw the oxygen mask off her face. “Hey, hey, hey, you gotta relax,” Charlie was saying as she tried to push the mask back on, but the woman would not listen. Even through her hacking, violent coughs, she kept trying to speak. “My daughter,” she gasped, before breaking into a furious coughing fit. “Where is she?”

“I’m sure she’s alright, you need to calm down,” Charlie said, trying her best to push her recalcitrant patient down.

“No- no-” the woman’s eyes were wild as she scanned the crowd. “She’s not here. I tried to tell the fireman—but I fainted, and she’s not here, oh my god, she’s still in there. She’s just a baby, oh god, oh god—”

The woman tried to roll herself off the gurney, but Charlie held her down. She was near hysterical, wailing and trying to claw at Charlie in order to get free.

“What the heck?” Charlie hissed at Dean, “I thought you guys got everyone out?”

“We did,” Dean said helplessly, his mind racing. “Or at least I thought we did.”

Fuck, they must have missed the child. Dean was sure he’d have remembered seeing any babies around.

“Where did you leave your daughter?” he asked the woman.

“My apartment. It’s—on the second floor. Unit 2-B.”

“I’m gonna go get her.” Without wasting a second, Dean ran back towards the burning building, pulling his helmet back on as he went.

“Where in the blazes do you think you’re going, Winchester?”

Shit. That was Bobby.

“No time, Bobby. There’s someone still in there,” Dean said hurriedly, “I’m going back in.”

Bobby grabbed him by the shoulder. “The hell you are. That building’s not safe anymore. I’ve already ordered everyone out. You’re not going in.”

“But there’s a kid—”

Bobby’s face sagged in regret, but he said, “It’s not safe. I’m sorry, Dean, but sometimes you gotta make tough calls. It’s my job to decide whether to send my people in. And right now, I’m saying it’s too dangerous. I’m not gonna let you risk your damn fool life for some kid who’s probably already dead. You go in there, it’s your fucking funeral.”

“You don’t know that,” Dean bit out harshly, “No way am I gonna just sit here and let a kid burn.”

“You think I’d let that kid die if there was any other choice? You can't save everyone all the time! Fuck, I should never have let you come in today, you idjit! You and your goddamn martyr complex, you think Mary would have wanted you to throw your life away—”

Incensed, Dean clenched his fists, glaring daggers at Bobby. “This has nothing to do with my mom!”

“Stand down, Winchester. I’m telling you— no one’s going in there. That’s a direct order from your captain.”

But Dean was past listening. He wrenched his shoulder from Bobby’s grasp and charged towards the building. There was a lot of yelling, and Dean saw Kevin’s face flash past, eyes wide with shock, as he barreled past the boy.

Garth leapt in front of him. “Uh, listen, Dean- I can’t let you go in there. Bobby-”

Dean promptly socked him in the jaw. “Sorry, Garth,” he said as Garth crumpled to the ground with a small noise of pain.

He climbed the two stories up the ladder in record time and scrambled into the building. Beneath him, he could hear Bobby yelling. He sounded apoplectic with rage. “Don’t you fucking dare go after him, you idjits! The next person who disobeys a direct order from me is getting their goddamn ass fired immediately! And even if you do, by some miracle, survive going in there, I’ll kill you myself!”

Dean felt momentarily guilty for dragging his friends with him into the shithouse with Bobby. But then, he burst out from the room and into the corridor and any thoughts about his friends or Bobby vanished from his mind. The place was filled with smoke, and vision was nearly nil. This was gonna make finding the correct apartment a little inconvenient, to say the least.

Then, over the crackle of the flames, Dean heard a thin, reedy wail—a baby crying. It was intermittent and extremely weak, but just about enough to allow Dean to get his bearings.

Thanking whatever forces that were out there listening, Dean followed the noise to unit 2-B. He burst in.

There. The baby was lying in a crib in the corner of the room, thankfully still untouched by the flames. She had stopped crying. Instead, she was making small, pathetic noises, which Dean came to realize were gasping attempts to breathe. Shit, he had to get them out of here quick.

Gingerly, cautious of allowing the baby’s skin to come into contact with the exterior of his heated up suit, Dean swaddled her in a mass of (thankfully, unburnt) blankets before scooping the baby up in his arms. His fingers were thick and clumsy through the gloves, and Dean was somewhat afraid he might drop his small passenger, but he had no time to lose. He high-tailed it from the apartment unit, making for the room where the ladder was.

All around him, the flames were raging, and the heat was nearly unbearable even through his suit. If he was feeling it so badly, it had to be even worse for the kid in his arms. Dean quickened his pace, even though the smoke was so bad he could barely see where there were gaps in the ground from where the floor had collapsed. The place was practically disintegrating already. Screw caution, Dean had no time for slow and steady.

By some small miracle, he managed to make it back to the room where the window and ladder were located with both himself and the kid relatively unscathed. He nearly had a heart attack when he glanced out of the window and was met with Bobby’s incensed face.

“Stop gawping. Hurry the fuck up and pass the kid to me. Then, get your ass down here yourself.” Bobby grunted angrily before muttering, “The things I do for you, boy.”

Dean gratefully leaned over the window sill to pass his tiny burden over to Bobby. The moment the kid was in Bobby’s arms, he inwardly heaved a huge sigh of relief.

They had made it. Dean had done it. Everything was going to be fine. Dean felt his lips spreading into a huge grin.

That was when the floor fell out from beneath him.

 

\---

 

Coughing weakly, Dean opened his eyes. His head was pounding and he hurt everywhere.

Wincing, he took stock of his situation. He could just barely make out his surroundings through the smoke and his soot-blackened visor. He was lying in some kind of pit from where the floor had caved in around him, surrounded by chunks of fallen debris. Slowly, he managed to will his aching body into movement and roll over onto his front. With a pained grunt, he pushed himself up into a kneeling position, his trembling arms the only things that kept him from face-planting into the ground.

Even that small action managed to make him feel like he was going to black out. His lungs were straining, and he felt the overwhelming urge to cough coming on. Shit, something in his self-contained breathing apparatus must have broken on his way down. The amount of smoke he was inhaling was definitely not healthy.

On his hands and knees, he crawled to the edge of the pit. Every breath was agony and his vision swam alarmingly, pitching about like he was on a ship in a storm. He struggled forward, hands reaching out to paw at the side of the pit. It wasn’t that high. On any normal day, Dean would have pushed himself over the top of the pit easily, but now it was a struggle simply to reach up to grasp the edge.

His fingers clawed at the edge of the pit, and he finally managed to grasp it tightly enough to pull himself into a semi-standing position. Almost. _Almost_ … He just had to… he just had to pull himself up further. If only he wasn’t so goddamned _weak_ …

Dean grit his teeth, trying his best to summon the strength to pull himself up, even as coughs wracked his body and he started to choke.

His vision was tunneling down, darkness closing in. Through the black spots dancing across his vision, he glimpsed debris showering down amidst the leaping flames. Perhaps it was the smoke inhalation but Dean thought he saw, backlit by the red-gold light of the flames, the image of a man with wings, black feathers glinting in the firelight.

For one moment, Dean's breath caught in his throat. He thought about what his mother always used to say to comfort him when he was afraid.

It was absurd. Dean knew there was no such thing as angels… but somehow, it gave him the strength he needed to make one last try.

Dean’s fingers tightened on the edge of the pit. He made one last valiant effort to pull himself up, but his arms were too weak, too useless, and he was so, so tired. The last thing Dean heard before his grip loosened and darkness closed in was the soft whisper of his mother’s voice.

_Angels are watching over you, Dean._

\---

 

Dean Winchester, the boy who watched his mother burn.

Castiel looked down at his trembling form as he struggled to right himself, down in the blackened pit that would be the last thing that he saw on this earth. Flaming debris was crashing down all around them, large chunky shapes barely visible through the thick pall of black smoke.

Beneath the char-blackened visor of his helmet, Dean’s face was waxen, strained in a pained grimace. He pushed himself onto all fours, shaking with the effort, but it was obvious that he was fighting a losing battle.

As he watched Dean struggle uselessly, fighting to survive even now, Castiel thought, filled with a strange sense of melancholy, about how the events of the past shaped the future. Maybe it was always destined that Dean Winchester would die as his mother did, sacrificing his life to save another. Castiel had never questioned the ineffable workings of destiny and fate, but now- now he wasn’t so sure.

Castiel put away the hourglass and moved closer. It was almost time for him to do his job.

He walked forward to the edge of the pit and knelt there. Dean was still straining to pull himself out of the hole, gamely fighting to the last, but he was weakening. Any moment now, he was going to lose his grip. His green eyes were wide with agony.

Castiel had to touch him now, do his job like he should and put Dean out of his misery. He reached out two fingers, but those fingers froze inches away from Dean. For some strange reason, Castiel just couldn't make his fingers move, no matter how hard he tried. It was like they had turned to stone.

 _Touch him_ , Castiel willed himself, _Touch him now!_ _Before it's too late!_

But Castiel was frozen, some strange, burning emotion churning in his chest.

Beneath Dean’s soot-blackened visor, his eyes slowly slid closed. His fingers loosened on the edge of the pit.

Then, he was falling.

_Now! Do it now!_

Castiel reached out, but instead of a light touch, his fingers closed around Dean’s wrist.  Then, he was lifting Dean up, cradling the unconscious man to his chest. Moving almost as though he was in a trance, he carried Dean out of the burning building.

The next thing he knew, he was standing outside, blinking in the sudden sunlight. Dean was still in his arms, warm and solid. He shifted weakly in Castiel’s grasp before his eyes opened.

“What?” he gasped out, “Who-” before bursting into an explosive coughing fit that left him shaking violently in Castiel’s arms.

Suddenly, a veritable mob of people was crowding in around Castiel, gabbling in joyous disbelief.

For one moment, Castiel felt fear course through him. They could see him? Then, he felt like an enormous idiot. Of course they could see him. If he was corporeal enough to hold Dean, he was also corporeal enough to be seen.

Someone whisked Dean away from him. There were seemingly endless profusions of thanks, people shaking Castiel’s hand, patting him on the back, someone even called him a hero – and all Castiel could think was: _Oh shit. I didn't do my job. I didn’t kill him._

For the first time in his very, very long existence, Castiel had disobeyed his orders. He had failed.

Dean Winchester was alive, and Castiel had screwed up.

He had _really, really_ _screwed up._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY. The central premise of this fic has been reached! Now the fun can really begin >:D


	4. Chapter 4

Castiel knew he should probably leave.

Humans were by nature curious creatures; they had a tendency to ask questions. Therefore, it would probably be wise for Castiel to make a move before anyone thought to start asking questions. Because there was nothing at all suspicious about the fact that he had just walked out of a burning building unharmed in nothing but his suit and a trench coat, carrying a near-dead firefighter in his arms. Nothing at all.

He was so screwed. Anna was going to be so furious. Or worse, she was going to give him that disapproving look of hers. She was going to look at him, not at all angrily, but very, very quietly, and she was going to say, “Castiel, I am very disappointed in you.”

Castiel felt himself slowly wilting inside at the very thought of Anna’s particular brand of wrath.

As he stared at the very much alive Dean Winchester, being fussed over by Charlie and then following Charlie's astonished diagnosis, three other EMTs, Castiel wondered if it would be too much to ask for the ground to open up, swallow him whole and hide him from Anna and her wrath forever and ever and ever, amen.

Someone tried to hand Dean a blanket. It was met with an energetic explosion of outrage from its recipient. “I don’t need a stupid blanket, I’m not some trauma victim in a movie! How is that even supposed to make me feel better? I almost burnt to death! I’m plenty toasty already!”

Then, “No! I’m not in shock! Take your damn blanket away!”

As expected, the paramedics were all stumped by Dean’s seemingly miraculous recovery.

Castiel didn’t blame them. By right, Dean should be suffering from a whole host of life-threatening injuries, including but not limited to multiple fractures, smoke inhalation, third degree burns, not to mention… an acute case of death.

Instead, he was completely fine, extremely spirited, and in the pink of health. Nothing in human medical science could explain it. As the EMTs were commenting bewilderedly, it was pretty much a miracle.

“Someone up there must like you very much,” one of the paramedics told Dean, smiling.

Castiel felt sick. They didn’t know the half of it. This was entirely Castiel’s fault.

A man was alive who shouldn’t be alive, and very soon, there would be _consequences_. There was a reason why there were reapers, a reason why they had to maintain the natural order.

Castiel had messed up big time. He had made a colossal mistake, and the universe was going to pay for it, unless he found some way to rectify this.

Castiel was freaking out, just thinking about it. He had to escape now before anyone noticed, find somewhere to regroup and—

Suddenly, there was a shout, “There he is! My dashing savior.”

Castiel spun around to see Dean, upright again, tearing an oxygen mask from his face. Charlie and the other EMTs were scowling in disapproval, but Dean just grinned and waved them off, trotting over to Cas. An obviously annoyed Charlie followed close behind him, all the while chiding him for his inability to stay still even after nearly being burnt to death.

Dean ignored her and strode up to Castiel, beaming brightly.

“Y’know, when Charlie told me about the mysterious stranger who carried me out of a burning building bridal-style, I was expecting something a little more Superman, and a little less Clark Kent. But I gotta say I like it.”

Castiel frowed and titled his head to one side, puzzled. _What?_ What was Dean going on about? And what on earth was a Superman and a… Clark Kent?

Dean gave Castiel a crooked grin, his eyes glinting with mirth. He slowly looked Castiel up and down. “I’m starting to think that maybe the fire wasn’t the hottest thing in there.”

When Castiel just stared at him in bewilderment, Dean grinned wider and did something strange with his eyebrows, moving them up and down.

Charlie groaned and smacked her head into her palm with a loud, painful-sounding thwack.

“What? Too soon?” Dean said at the same time that Cas asked, “I’m sorry- is that a flirtation?”

Charlie looked between the two of them incredulously.

“Is this guy for real?” she asked Dean before throwing her arms up and declaring, “And _you_! Are you seriously hitting on the dude who _just_ rescued you from certain death? I honestly don’t know which one of you is worse!” With a huff, she stalked off, red hair swishing in its ponytail, practically oozing exasperation from every pore.

Castiel stared bemusedly after her.

“Did I… do something to offend her?” he asked hesitantly.

Dean burst out into laughter. “Nah, it’s all good. Don’t worry about it, man.” He reached out to give Castiel’s arm a hearty pat. “Charlie’s just being Charlie. She’ll get over it.”

He stuck out his hand. “I’m Dean. Dean Winchester”

Castiel eyed the outstretched warily before remembering that oh yes, this was how humans generally made acquaintances. A hand-shaking ritual of some sort. He hastily reached out to grasp Dean’s hand, shaking it about a little awkwardly. Dean’s hand was warm, his grip firm. The skin of his palm was rough and calloused, which Castiel supposed was only to be expected given the amount of physical labor he did daily. It was only after Dean raised one eyebrow that Castiel realized that he probably should have released Dean’s hand about twenty seconds ago.

Castiel dropped Dean’s hand like it had just burnt him, but Dean didn’t seem offended. Instead, for some reason, he was smirking knowingly at Castiel. “You got a name, mysterious rescuer?”

“Castiel.” There was an awkward pause before Castiel remembered that humans generally had last names too. Panicking, he tried to rack his brain for a suitable one. “Novak,” he blurted, the name suddenly popping into his mind, along with the strangest feeling of dizziness—

_A flash of blonde hair, a child’s voice raised in a scream, a woman’s face, framed by long light brown hair, her brown eyes kind—_

Abruptly, Castiel was slammed back into reality by the warm, rough baritone of Dean’s voice.

“Cas-ti-el,” Dean was saying, slowly sounding Castiel’s name out. There was a weird tingling feeling in Castiel’s chest, listening to the syllables of his name roll off Dean’s tongue. “That’s a pretty cool name. Got a real superhero feel to it. I guess that’s fitting.”

Dean chuckled. His grin was boy-like and strangely charming.

“Nice to meet you, Castiel Novak. Thanks for saving my life back there. Seriously, I don’t know how the hell you did it, but I would be dead without you, so uh, thanks. You really saved my ass.”

Castiel felt heat rushing up to his cheeks, and he ducked his head shyly as he said, “You’re welcome, Dean. For my, uh, saving of your ass.”

Dean let out a throaty bark of laughter at that, and Castiel was surprised at how pleasant he found that sound, and suddenly, it made him feel like making Dean laugh more. Also, he found himself musing, Dean’s smile really was quite nice…

“Winchester!”

Dean suddenly jerked, the smile dropping off his face. “Oh shit,” he muttered under his breath, before turning to face Bobby, a placating smile plastered on his face. “Look, Bobby, I’m sorry I disobeyed your orders, and I’m willing to accept any consequences—”

But Dean’s apology speech was abruptly cut short as Bobby grabbed him into a bear hug. “You stupid idjit! You nearly gave me a heart attack. Never do that again.”

He gave Dean a stern glare and then said, “Also, you’re doing my paperwork for a month. Count yourself lucky I’m even letting you keep your job.”

Dean grinned sheepishly. “Sure, Bobby.”

“Take the rest of the evening off. The EMTs say there’s nothing wrong with you, but hell if I believe them. Consider this the last break you’ll be getting before you work your ass off to make up for that stunt you pulled back there.”

Dean nodded, and he must have looked suitably chastened because Bobby let him be. Instead, Bobby turned to look at Castiel.

“Ah, the hero of the day. So this is the man who rescued one of my firefighters. Really turned the tables on us. The rescuers becoming the rescued. Pretty embarrassing. Though I must say, Winchester does make a damn good damsel in distress.”

“Hey!” came Dean’s good-natured protest.

“Anyway, thanks for coming to that idjit’s rescue. As far as I’m concerned, that makes you an honorary fireman. Maybe I’m just a captain, but if I’ve got anything to say about it, you’re getting a goddamn medal for what you did. You deserve it.”

Castiel just stared dumbly, but Bobby seemed to take his silence as a form of acceptance. He gave Castiel a brusque but grateful nod before striding off again, yelling at the firefighters to get off their lazy asses and start packing up.

Dean watched Bobby leave, but then he turned back to Castiel with a small, rather nervous-looking smile on his face.

“So uh, Bobby just gave me the rest of the night off. And I figure one good deed deserves another, so… how about a thank you dinner? I just need to get out of my gear and we can go. My car’s back at the station, and you could hitch a ride back with us on the fire engine.”

“Uh,” said Castiel. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea—” Because he was a reaper and he really shouldn’t be palling around with the guy he was sent to kill. And also—had he forgotten to mention? The universe might implode any moment because of his mistake? The mistake he had still as of yet failed to rectify?

Said mistake grinned and waved a hand at Castiel airily.

“Don’t worry about it, dude. Bobby said you’re an honorary fireman now, so I don’t see why you can’t ride with us. C’mon, it’ll be cool. Haven’t you ever wanted to ride on a fire engine when you were a kid?”

“Uh,” said Castiel. He didn’t have the heart to tell Dean that that particular fantasy had never featured a single time in all his centuries of existence.

“Seriously, you saved my life back there. At least let me buy you dinner.”

Dean grinned at Castiel and Castiel was struck by the sudden, inane thought that nobody should be allowed to have eyes that were such a breathtakingly vivid shade of green.

There were about a million reasons why Castiel should say no, but what came out of his mouth instead was, “Okay.”

“Awesome!” Dean’s smile could have rivaled the sun for its brilliance, and Castiel secretly gloried a little in being the recipient of that particular expression of warmth.

Really, there was nothing wrong in what he was doing. Castiel was just staying with his target so that he could complete his job. Once the dinner was over, Castiel would do what he had to do. He would grit his teeth, summon up his courage and do his job, like he had always done.

In the meantime, it wouldn’t hurt if Dean had a few more moments of happiness, would it? It was the least Castiel could do before taking his life away. And really, it was merely a bonus if Castiel got to see that smile again.

Or at least that was what Castiel told himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Cas... you poor deluded fool xD


End file.
